


I am not scared of the elements

by sparklespiff



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining, Stupidity, a tiny bit of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 09:11:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19742596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparklespiff/pseuds/sparklespiff
Summary: After the loveliest meal of his entire existence, Aziraphale followed Crowley back to the Bentley. He wondered if it would be too forward to try to hold Crowley's free hand, or if he ought to wait for Crowley to reach out. Probably he should wait. Crowley had done the asking, after all, and would better know what he was doing. And anyway, riding in the Bentley was dangerous enough without removing one of Crowley's hands from doing something theoretically necessary for the operation of an automobile.or:Two occult/ethereal beings with one (1) brain cell between them attempt to end 6000 years of pining.





	I am not scared of the elements

**Author's Note:**

> A very big thank you to [factorielle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/factorielle), for screaming about Good Omens with me and Suffering with me in the name of ~friendship~ and allowing me to throw this fic at her in pieces over whatsapp. 
> 
> Title taken from "I Choose You" by Sara Bareilles, which is absolutely my Aziraphale is 100% Ready to Romance a Wily Serpent song.

"My dear," Aziraphale said, closing his book, "I was thinking."

It was a dark and stormy night, which meant it was perfect for staying in with Crowley and a bottle of wine and a good book. Now the book had been read, and the wine had been drunk, and Crowley had been patiently entertaining himself until Aziraphale was ready to pay attention to him again.

"Don't worry about me, angel," he'd said, waving his mobile, when Aziraphale had asked if it was alright. "I'll just be trolling."

Now the tip of Crowley's tongue was peeking out the side of his mouth, while he worked at whatever it was _trolling_ meant, amusing himself so thoroughly Aziraphale's words hadn't penetrated his focus. Aziraphale considered calling him adorable out loud, because 1) he was, and 2) saying such a thing was likely to result in Crowley pushing him up against a bookshelf, which Aziraphale thought he'd quite enjoy. Unfortunately, he had plans, and that seemed liable to derail them.

"How is Tweety?" he asked instead.

That got Crowley to look up. "I'm sorry, _what?"_

"You know, Tweety." Aziraphale pointed at Crowley's mobile. "You never did explain what you were doing to make people angry over a little cartoon bird."

"What? No! No, angel, there is no cartoon bird."

"Of course there's a cartoon bird! I saw it in a talking picture in 1941. Though I don't believe he was _called_ Tweety at the time—"

"Angel. _Angel._ I am not denying the existence of fucking Tweety Bird, I'm telling you that what I was doing has nothing to do with—"

"—though _speaking_ of talking pictures, I thought we might go and watch that new one together. The one about the bebop."

Crowley shut his mouth and sat back. He pressed his fist to his mouth, pulled it away to point at Aziraphale, and then pressed it to his mouth again.

"My dear?"

"Are you talking about Bohemian Rhapsody." It wasn't a question, the way Crowley said it. If asked, Crowley probably would have described his complete lack of inflection as the sound of all hope dying, because he could be ridiculously dramatic that way.

"There are so _many_ talking pictures showing, so I can't be certain, but I do _like_ that title." Aziraphale smiled. "It flows better than Czech Rhapsody, doesn't it? Oh, remember Bohemia? The palačinky! Delightful."

Aziraphale knew the name of the film was Bohemian Rhapsody, and also that they were called films nowadays, and also that it was about a band called Queen, who would not be classified as bebop, and who had nothing to do with the former kingdom of Bohemia.

"Czech Rhap—" Crowley stood up, apparently unable to express his incredulity properly while seated. He waved his arms. "It isn't a film about Bohuslav Martinů!"

Aziraphale knew all this, but Crowley was just so much fun to rile up, and, well, he didn't see any reason to hold himself back from enjoying it any longer.

(The palačinky really had been delightful, though.)

"Oh, Crowley, it doesn't matter what it's about." Aziraphale reached out and caught one of Crowley's flailing hands. He'd done it, gotten the asking over with, and surely that meant he was allowed to be openly affectionate if he wanted to now. "I'm sure I'll enjoy it as long as I'm with you."

Crowley went very still. All except his hand, which Aziraphale was holding, and could feel trembling. "You want to go to the cinema with me?"

Aziraphale smiled. "I do."

Crowley shook. His eyes, wide and golden and lovely in the lamplight, darted to the coffee table, where he'd laid his sunglasses earlier in the evening, about two drinks in.

"You can put them on, if you need to," Aziraphale said. "I'd rather you didn't. I like being able to see your eyes. But it's up to you."

Crowley looked back at Aziraphale, and though his hand was still shaking, his gaze stayed steady. Dearest, bravest Crowley. "Why?" he asked.

"Why do I want to see your eyes? Because they're beautiful, darling." Aziraphale watched Crowley sway forward, just slightly, before pulling himself back. "Or do you mean why I want to go to the cinema with you? I'm happy in your company. And I'd heard, well, that it was something to do. For a date."

"For a— No. I meant, why now." Crowley pulled his hand out of Aziraphale's, took a step back, and threw himself down onto the couch. He tipped his head back and covered his eyes with an arm. "I thought— ngk. After— after all of it, everything, after the Ritz, I thought maybe. But you told me to drop you off at the bookshop, and you didn't ask me in, so I thought— I thought, 'Okay, so it's not happening now either, but you're used to living with whatever scraps he's willing to give, aren't you? You'll live.' I'm—" He lifted the arm and swept it out in a wide arc. "I've been accepting it! So I need to know, Aziraphale. Why now?"

_At this point, it may be helpful to know what Crowley is talking about, so:_

**LITERALLY YESTERDAY**

After the loveliest meal of his entire existence, Aziraphale followed Crowley back to the Bentley. He wondered if it would be too forward to try to hold Crowley's free hand, or if he ought to wait for Crowley to reach out. Probably he should wait. Crowley had done the asking, after all, and would better know what he was doing. And anyway, riding in the Bentley was dangerous enough without removing one of Crowley's hands from doing something theoretically necessary for the operation of an automobile.

"Oh, that was wonderful, wasn't it?" Aziraphale hoped the day would continue being wonderful, that Crowley would drive them back to his flat and Aziraphale could acquaint himself with the place like he hadn't been able to the night before, when they'd been too busy planning how to save themselves from Heaven and Hell.

Now they were safe, at least for a while, and had the time and the freedom to do and say the things they hadn't been able to, when their sides had still been pulling them apart. Crowley's flat had exactly one chair, and it was a throne— excellent for dramatics, Aziraphale imagined, but not exactly suitable for intimate conversation. Last night, Crowley had given Aziraphale the chair and perched on the desk with one long leg drawn up and the other dangling off the side while they talked about their plan. Aziraphale hoped they could sit somewhere more comfortable this time. Crowley had that wonderfully large bed, whose sheets Crowley had bragged about multiple times, and which seemed like it would do quite nicely for engaging in intercourse— of the talking variety, obviously. Though Aziraphale wouldn't be averse to trying the non-talking variety either, if it was Crowley he was trying it with.

Aziraphale considered it a little more, just because it was nice to consider. No, he wouldn't be averse at all.

"Yeah, angel. It was." From Crowley, that was almost effusively sentimental. It helped to dull the disappointment when he went on to say, "I'll drop you off at the bookshop, then?"

Aziraphale could get Crowley to change his mind, he knew. All it would take was a slight widening of the eyes and an "I'd rather go back to yours" and they'd be on their way to Crowley's flat. Crowley _liked_ giving Aziraphale things he wanted.

But Crowley had been waiting for Aziraphale to be ready all this time. Aziraphale hadn't been able to tell Crowley he loved him, hadn't even been able to say the words to ask him properly to wait, and still he'd waited.

Now that it was happening, now that _they_ were happening, if Crowley wanted to take things slow, it was only fair to let him. Aziraphale couldn't push him, not now that Crowley was asking _him_ to wait, not unless he wanted to be a terrible hypocrite. Besides, he vaguely remembered hearing that going home together was something that happened on the third date. That wasn't too long to wait. 

"Thank you, my dear. We've had a trying few days, haven't we?"

"Ha! That's one way of putting it." Crowley turned his head to smile at Aziraphale, small but sincere, and Aziraphale felt his breath catch, almost wanted to ask Crowley to stop time again so he could live in this moment longer. He bargained himself down to abdicating the responsibility of telling Crowley to watch the road. "Worth it, though."

_I love you,_ he thought. _I love you, I love you, I love you._ He'd been holding the words back for so long they felt ready to burst out of him, but if Crowley was determined to be proper about everything, he wouldn't want to hear it for the first time in a car. "Yes," Aziraphale said instead, with all the warmth he could muster.

The Bentley stopped in front of the bookshop— how lovely it was, to see with his own eyes that it stood again!— and Aziraphale thanked Crowley once more and stepped out of the car. He waited to see if Crowley would get out with him, to walk him to his door and perhaps even kiss him on the doorstep, but Crowley stayed seated, both hands still on the wheel.

"I really did have a wonderful time," Aziraphale said, and then, hoping it wasn't too much, but unable to help himself: "I'll see you soon?"

Crowley was silent for a moment, just looking at him, and then said, "Yeah, 'course. Later, angel," and drove off.

**THIS MORNING**

Aziraphale had spent most of the night walking through the shop, checking on every book, noting what was new. Part of the night he spent making himself calming cups of tea. These were necessary because of how he spent the remainder of the night, which was attempting to use his computer to browse the World Wide Web for modern courting protocol. The information was contradictory, and confusing, and in the end he had a vague understanding of it being common to wait a few days before calling and asking for another date, unless one was feeling particularly keen and didn't mind appearing "uncool". Crowley, Aziraphale knew, cared a dreadfully great deal about appearing cool. One could, however, retain one's coolness and send a "text message" almost immediately after a date. It was almost enough to make him wish he owned a mobile phone.

Still, Crowley had to know Aziraphale of all people wouldn't judge him for seeming too keen, so once the sun rose, he sat down at his desk, looked at his phone, and waited.

It didn't ring.

He reminded himself that Crowley was given to indulging in bouts of sloth, and wasn't likely to be up so early, and busied himself reorganizing the bookshelves. He kept himself within easy reach of the telephone and then gave as much of his attention to his task as he possibly could. By the time he surfaced, it was after noon. The phone had still not rung.

Aziraphale decided to have lunch. He realized in quick succession that 1) he couldn't order in, because what if Crowley called while Aziraphale was tying up the line, and 2) he couldn't go upstairs to his kitchen and fix himself something to eat, because what if Crowley called while he was up there, and he couldn't get back to pick up in time? Fortunately, he had several packages of emergency biscuits in his desk. They would do.

The biscuits were gone by two, and Crowley had still not called.

He wanted— well, he wanted to be where Crowley was, to know what it was like to kiss him, to see if his hair was as nice to touch as it was to look at, to feel if he was cold in Aziraphale's arms, or warm. If he couldn't have that, he wanted to be eating something other than biscuits.

He opened every drawer in his desk, and miraculously, in the bottom one, was a sleeve of crackers and a lovely block of cheese. He ate, and he thought, and when he was done eating, he picked up the phone.

Why did it have to be Crowley who initiated the second date, just because he'd asked Aziraphale on the first?

Crowley picked up on the first ring. "Hello, angel." He sounded odd— tired, a little, but still fond underneath that.

Outside, it began to rain.

"Good afternoon, dearest," Aziraphale said, feeling a bit of a thrill at how blatant he was being. "Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?"

Crowley paused before answering, and Aziraphale felt his pulse begin to speed. "Yeah, okay."

"Oh, lovely! We can—" Thunder boomed. Aziraphale entertained, very briefly, the thought that Heaven was trying to ruin his date. But no; Heaven was leaving them alone. Still, it didn't seem like the properly romantic evening Crowley deserved. You couldn't go for an after-dinner walk under the stars in the middle of a storm. The Aziraphale of just a few days ago would have kept on anyway, plans being meant to be stuck to and all. The new, post-Notpocalypse Aziraphale could adapt. If it couldn't be the date Crowley deserved, there was no need for it to be a date at all. "We can order in. Come to the bookshop around six?"

It would just be like every other evening they'd spent in each other's company in the bookshop. They'd eat and drink and talk, and perhaps after a while Aziraphale would pull out a book and Crowley would find some mischief to amuse himself with, and they'd just be near each other without any need for talking at all.

Crowley agreed, and Aziraphale wondered what the rules were, for non-date meetings with a person one wanted to, well, spend the rest of one's existence loving. He'd follow Crowley's lead. Crowley would know. (And in the meantime, Aziraphale would plan that second date. Something that wouldn't be affected by the weather. A film, perhaps. That seemed traditional.)

**THIS EVENING**

The rain was sheeting down by the time Crowley arrived at the bookshop. Aziraphale watched through the glass as Crowley uncoiled from his seat and walked his slow, loose-hipped walk, not bothering with an umbrella as he made his way to the door. Aziraphale imagined running out to meet him, pulling him down by the ridiculous thing he wore around his neck and kissing his red mouth as the rain fell down all around them. The drops would be cold but everywhere they touched would be hot and Crowley would taste like coffee and rain, and—

"Are you going to open the door, or am I supposed to freeze out here all night?" Crowley stood in front of the door. It was no wonder he was cold, given how much of his chest was exposed to the air. It was a miracle his clothes were dry. If not for that, they'd be plastered to his skin.

Aziraphale licked his lips.

"Well?" Crowley asked. Behind and around him the rain kept pouring down. Aziraphale wanted to be near him, like he'd been the very first time.

"Right," Aziraphale said, "of course," and stepped aside to let him in.

**NOW**

"Scraps?" Aziraphale had very recently experienced the physical sensation of being punched in the gut, and so he could with authority say this felt much the same. "Is that really what it's felt like to you, all this time?" Had Crowley not known, all these centuries, how desperately he was loved? Years and years of never touching him, never telling him, always feeling torn in two and the only thing making it at all bearable the thought that at least Crowley knew.

Aziraphale pressed his lips together, hard. He didn't deserve to cry over this, when it was all his own foolish fault.

"Oh fuck, angel, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it." Crowley had jumped up off the couch and was waving his arms, frantic and dear and so, so kind. From the moment they met, when Aziraphale had stood on a wall, alone and so uncertain, and Crowley had come along and made him feel better, Crowley was always being so kind. "I shouldn't have said that."

"You _did_ mean it, and you should have said it, and I'm the one who should be sorry." Aziraphale's voice was only shaking a little. He'd have felt proud of it, had he any room to feel anything but regret. "I'm terribly, terribly sorry. I thought you knew, you see. How very much I— I thought you knew."

"I knew, angel! I know! Do you think I would have stuck around all this time if I didn't— wait, don't answer that, it's not a good look for me," Crowley said, looking away, which meant _Yes, I would have, I would have loved you all these years without hope of reciprocation._ "Not knowing was never the problem."

"Oh." Aziraphale clasped his hands tightly in front of himself, to keep himself from reaching out. Crowley would let him, he knew, but now was the time to say things with words, not gestures. "It was the waiting, then?"

Crowley crossed to the door, and for one horrible moment Aziraphale thought he was walking away, but of course he wasn't, was just doing his best to pace in Aziraphale's back room, too small for Crowley, for the beautiful restless fire of him. "It wasn't the waiting," he said, making a curved path through the room, door to couch and back, Aziraphale at the center of his orbit. "It was not knowing when the waiting would end." _When,_ instead of _if,_ yet another kindness. "And then when it looked like it might finally be over, I thought you were telling me it wasn't."

Aziraphale imagined it was something like waiting for a seasonal confection to appear; you could go nine months and barely notice, but if you walked into the shop on the first day of spring only to find out they'd sold out already, well. And it had been so much longer than nine months.

Crowley looked at Aziraphale then, not hiding the wary hope in his eyes. "But I was wrong?" Brave, wonderful Crowley.

"Yes, Crowley," Aziraphale said, as gently as he could. Crowley stopped pacing, and Aziraphale moved towards him, slowly, slowly. "You were absolutely wrong. I was rather disappointed you didn't bring me back to yours."

Crowley's jaw dropped in outrage. His arms threatened to start flailing again. "You might have said something!"

"I can say things now, if you like." Aziraphale closed the distance between them and lifted a hand to Crowley's cheek. The skin beneath his fingertips was softer than it looked. Wily, sharp-edged Crowley, touchable after all. "I wanted to hold your hand in your car. I wanted to kiss you in the rain. I've wanted to tell you I love you for centuries."

"I win," Crowley said, leaning into the touch, reaching out and resting his hands on Aziraphale's waist. "I've loved you since Eden. I wanted to kiss you in the very first rain."

"You'd have been lovely to kiss in the rain," Aziraphale said, smiling, "but I think I prefer what actually happened."

"Really," Crowley said, looking somewhat disbelieving. "So if I said, 'Hey, angel, come outside with me right now—'"

"I'd say no." Aziraphale swayed forward, pressing his body against Crowley's, feeling the heat of him. His other hand came up to frame Crowley's dear face. "I had the right of it, back then. I'd rather keep you safe and dry."

"A no on the rain, then. And the rest of it?" Crowley's voice was doing that low, drawling thing it did. He had to know what it was doing to Aziraphale. He was leaning in. Aziraphale pulled him down the rest of the way.

Crowley's mouth was hot, and he tasted like wine. Aziraphale had kissed other people before, and it had felt joyful, caught up in the exuberance of the gavotte, but kissing Crowley was all-consuming, like all the good parts of being drunk and none of the bad. He felt the kiss in every part of his body, tingling, like his blood had been replaced with champagne.

"See, my love?" he said, and kissed Crowley again, here in the sheltered warmth of his bookshop, to the background symphony of the rain falling on the roof. He kissed Crowley's lips and forehead and the tattoo by his ear. He felt Crowley shudder. It shook him too. "Isn't it better like this?"

Aziraphale waited for Crowley to nod, and then kissed his beloved mouth again.

Later, upstairs in the hastily miracled bed, warm, warm— warmer than Aziraphale had ever felt in his life, feeling like he would never be cold or lonely ever again, with Crowley's precious head pillowed on his shoulder, Aziraphale heard him say, "You were joking about the Tweety thing, right? I need you to tell me you were joking."

Crowley needed no input from Aziraphale to go on, lovingly disparaging his intelligence, proclaiming that _no one_ in the _history_ of the _world_ — and he would _know,_ having been around for _all of it_ — on and on and on, until finally he trailed off and closed his eyes and went quiet, except for an occasional faint hiss. Aziraphale turned his head just enough to press a kiss to Crowley's hair, and then, for the very first time in his entire existence, with Crowley warm and very loved in his arms, felt content enough to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [over here on tumblr](https://todaythesamesky.tumblr.com/) going into regular meltdowns over SIX THOUSAND YEARS.


End file.
